


A Matter of Time

by chaineddove



Category: Kyou Kara Maou!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-11
Updated: 2008-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaineddove/pseuds/chaineddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>4,000 years is probably long enough to forget, Murata is determined, and Shouri is convenient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Playing with Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/341709) by [chaineddove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaineddove/pseuds/chaineddove). 



> A companion piece to _Playing with Fire_. Rampant spoilers through the beginning of season three.

The thing about swearing eternal fidelity is, it seems a lot easier in theory than it actually turns out to be in practice. Love is one thing, and that part is fairly simple — it never really goes away over the years, only settles into something quiet and a little more bearable in the corner of his consciousness. It’s not a question of loving Shinou or not loving him; the fact is simply that dwelling on anything — true love or not — for a few thousand years can hardly be considered healthy.

He should know, as he gives it a good, long try, going through a few incarnations full of righteous feelings of self-sacrifice. He becomes a monk, then a shrine maiden, both remarked for their extreme piety. He keeps to himself, biding his time, until the unfortunate incident when he is condemned as a witch and burned at the stake for no good reason, as far as he can tell, except avoiding the village priest’s many secretive and lascivious advances. He decides enough is enough after that, and is relieved to be born male the next go around. Not that being a woman occasionally bothers him, particularly, but it’s incredible how much trouble being a pretty girl can net you.

Not that pretty men are entirely immune to trouble, either. The noble on whose staff he is currently serving starts giving him very interested looks. After a few weeks, he decides, what the hell, and starts looking back. They wind up in bed eventually and he realizes in a moment of startling clarity that however much he may love the memory of Shinou, he is going to go crazy if that is the only thing he lives for. As far as he knows, he’s got a handful of lifetimes to go before he can even come close to finishing his mission; he may as well enjoy them, since he’s stuck living them one way or the other.

***

The promise of eternal fidelity sort of erodes after that. Well, not really, he supposes. After all, hasn’t he spent a few dozen lifetimes laying the groundwork for Shinou’s master plan, sacrificing a few of his lives for the greater cause? He’s as faithful as ever in that way, and the next time he sees Shinou — or whatever happens to be left of him — he doubts his former lover will call for anything else. It is fairly unlikely that the shell of the man who was once Shinou will question what he has been doing with his body in the interim.

He relaxes and lives mostly as he pleases for a few thousand years, taking lovers when it seems like the thing to do. He gets married once or twice, wears a few truly atrocious wedding dresses, has a few children, breaks a number of laws, nearly starts two wars and puts a stop to one more. Sometimes he’s born human, sometimes Mazoku. His soul migrates to a different world but that doesn’t particularly bother him. The time is coming soon, he thinks; he has a few hundred years at best before he goes home. Then everything will be settled and he will rest.

***

He has done everything ever asked of him, but he still feels a mix of consternation and guilt when Shinou… lingers. He cannot help a sense of disquiet when Shinou’s eyes follow his last form, feeling scrawny and plain and inadequate. He has spent four thousand years learning to forget, so he really thinks it’s rather inconsiderate of Shinou to show up and start being sane _now_ , just as he thinks he will finally be allowed to let him go. This is his last life as the Great Sage and he’s looking forward to having his soul’s memory wiped clean — it’s been a long time and he’s overdue for a fresh start. “I’m tired of baby-sitting you,” he tells Shinou, and he means it.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” Murata knows this smile very well, even after all these lifetimes. It is amused and proud and maybe just a touch tender, but it is several thousand years too late.

He sighs. “Not if it means I have to keep you out of trouble.”

***

The fact is, Shibuya’s brother just turns out to be convenient. He briefly flirted with the idea of starting something with Shibuya himself, but upon examination it seems like too much trouble and would make him too brutal an enemy in the form of Wolfram. He’s a lover, not a fighter; he might know just about everything there is to know, but he still can’t hold a sword to save his life. Besides, Shibuya is his friend. Not that a little healthy lust wouldn’t do him some good, but Murata supposes he’ll get there with Wolfram by and by.

Shibuya’s brother doesn’t come with a jealous bodyguard. He _does_ come with an impressive reservoir of untapped power, and Murata has lived long enough to be aware of his own weakness for powerful men. Shibuya’s brother is also just ignorant enough to tromp all over convention and start fights with Murata without any regard for place or time. On a few occasions, Murata is sure Shinou is watching from the shadows; he can feel the displeasure in that hidden gaze and it makes him bold. He brings Shibuya’s brother to Shin Makoku for no particular reason, makes sure to stand a fraction too close, takes the opportunity to touch his face and hair, appropriates his glasses so he needs a hand to guide him across the courtyard, smiles and taunts and lays the groundwork with the ease and confidence of someone who has done this a thousand times.

He stands in the doorway and watches his intended target work with Ulrike to perfect and control his magic. He feels a chill in the air behind him and Shinou’s voice says, with barely controlled annoyance, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Murata doesn’t turn to face him. Shibuya’s brother stares in concentration at a bowl of water. Sparkling streamers of it spin into the air with a flick of his wrist. “What does it matter?” It’s his last life as the Great Sage and he’ll be damned if he lets this man own his soul any longer. Love isn’t the point. It’s simply been too long, and even if he were to try taking the past back, they can’t be the way they were before. They have both been through too much and he is too tired.

“You are mine,” Shinou tells him in a conversational tone of voice.

“You are dead,” Murata says, his voice just as bland. “I am not.” He steps out of the shadows and into the sanctuary, faking a carefree smile.

***

Wearing down Shibuya’s brother is not difficult. It isn’t as though Murata’s current form is particularly alluring compared to some of the others he has worn, but that doesn’t matter quite so much as how he makes his approach, and in that he is a true master. Shibuya’s brother stammers and denies but after awhile Murata can feel him watching, heat in his gaze. Not so long now, he thinks, not long at all.

When he has his prey sufficiently off balance, Murata climbs into his lap and lets things progress naturally from there. The experience is equal parts satisfying and hilarious, as it ends with Shibuya throwing open the door — ostensibly to rescue his brother, who has been letting out some rather enthusiastic cries — and fainting in the hallway. His new lover is still blinking glazed eyes at him as Murata gathers up his clothes. “Well,” Murata says, pulling on his pants, “so much for keeping things a secret.”

“Friend of My Brother-”

Murata winks and blows a kiss and escapes down the stairs, stepping over Shibuya’s inert form.

***

He knows he is looking thoroughly disheveled and smiling in a very satisfied manner as he strolls down the temple hallway a few weeks later. “I could kill him,” Shinou’s voice comes from nowhere.

“You could,” Murata agrees. “Probably. Why would you bother? It would upset your chosen successor and it’s not like you want what he’s getting, particularly. That’s pretty childish for a four-thousand-year-old dead demon king who styles himself a deity, don’t you think?” Shinou’s displeasure is palpable, but he doesn’t say anything else. “All right then,” Murata says, feeling like he’s scored an enormous victory.

***

His eyesight is extremely poor and his lover’s isn’t much better, so there are two pairs of glasses on the nightstand. In the dark, the person sharing his bed could be just about anyone. He traces a finger down his lover’s face, feeling the lines he can’t clearly see.

“What are you thinking?” The voice is low and raspy with sleep.

“I’m thinking you need to shave, Shibuya’s Older Brother,” he murmurs. “Otherwise, you look like a child molester.”

There is a low chuckle from the other side of the bed, then a rustle of sheets as Shibuya’s brother shifts his weight and draws Murata into a loose embrace. His body is warm and familiar; so are his lips when he brushes them over Murata’s hair. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

Murata feels a little pang of guilt despite himself.

***

They ring in the new year together. Shibuya’s mother insists he join their family for hanami. Murata accompanies Shibuya’s older brother on a trip to Switzerland and spends a few days drinking tea and chatting with Bob’s secretary while Bob whisks away his companion. They return to Shin Makoku and he watches Shibuya get drunk on nectar during the festival of sowing, barely containing his laughter as a blushing Wolfram drags him away towards the privacy of their room. Shibuya’s brother thinks he is too dignified to get drunk, but that doesn’t stop Murata from dragging him away, too, when the time comes.

“But Yuu-chan-”

“Let him be,” Murata says, his smile placating. “Don’t you think it’s about time?” Shibuya’s brother finds it hard to argue with that logic, especially when Murata kisses him to shut him up.

Before they know it, summer’s at its peak, the air shimmering with heat. In the shade of a tree, they escape from the worst of the sun with sweating cans of iced tea from the vending machine. Murata holds his to his forehead for a few moments, wondering if it wouldn’t be worth it to jump into the nearby pond and take a few days in Shin Makoku. Fall is in full swing there, the trees changing to red and gold. If they go now, they’ll be in time for the yearly harvest festival. There will be bonfires and music and cool, crisp nights just right for sitting a little too close. Maybe Shibuya will get drunk again and provide some entertainment.

“You look happy, Friend of My Brother.” He is smiling as he says it, his hair limp and a little sweaty, his shirt sticking to his chest, the beginning of a sunburn on the tip of his nose.

“I suppose I am,” he says, and realizes he is. Japan in July is not well suited for sitting a little too close, but he scoots in anyway.

***

He knows something has changed when he can look into Shinou’s clear blue eyes and feel nothing but the warmth of mild affection. Over the centuries, the thought of Shinou has called up various emotions in him: frustration, grief, hate, anger, hope, love. Never before has he felt so strangely detached and calm.

“So,” Shinou says, blue eyes seeing right through him. “That’s how it is.”

“Apparently,” he says, surprised despite himself.

“I suppose I should be gracious and wish you luck.” Shinou’s smile is a little sad.

So is his. “It couldn’t hurt.”

***

It is probably the fact that this is his very last life that makes him feel like this is so important, or maybe it is the fact that this is something he has chosen for himself after too many centuries of doing someone else’s bidding. Whatever the reason, his heart is pounding in his chest in a way completely unsuited to a person of his years. “You know,” he says, a little apprehensive, a lot hopeful, “the world wouldn’t end, I think, if you tried calling me Ken.”

His lover’s mouth makes an ‘o’ of surprise, but his eyes say that this is probably not a bad idea.


End file.
